


By the Moonlight

by ElementKitsune



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Based off of the poem The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes, M/M, Minor Character Death (before story events), Romance, Suicide, The story starts off very light but PAY ATTENTION TO THE WARNINGS, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-15 09:09:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15409689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElementKitsune/pseuds/ElementKitsune
Summary: They build their love by the moonlight, until it all comes crashing down.Based off of The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes, which can be found here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43187/the-highwayman





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the Sheith Reverse Bang event on tumblr! Credits for the idea go to the lovely [Impending Exodus aka Marissa](http://impendingexodus.tumblr.com/), who also has amazing illustrations, and as always, my awesome friend cheesecake beta'd for me!
> 
> Based off of The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes, which can be found here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43187/the-highwayman

How their story starts is a little bit like this:

Keith is sharpening his mother’s old blade by candlelight and the moon when whistling drifts in through his window. It’s pleasant whistling, at least, nothing like the drunken tunes people often sing when done hanging out at Marmora Inn.

Pleasant enough that Keith can’t help the sudden swell of curiosity that leads him to pause with sharpening the knife and take a moment to look out the window to find the source of the whistling. Said source ends up being a man with a crimson feather in his hat and a coat as black as the horse he rides.

(Keith might grumble a bit at that. It’s hard to see who people are at night when they’re wearing dark and darkish colours)

But then, the feather-capped man passes through a beam of moonlight, and Keith gets a good look at his face. Well, as good a look he can get when the highwayman is halfway across the courtyard and illuminated only by the moon.

He doesn’t see much of the person himself, even though his pistols and rapiers gleam like earthly stars. But Keith catches the sight of a dark pink scar across the whistler’s nose and remembers posters and bounties; how the Galra regiment in all their purple glory had leaned onto the bar and asked his father with sleazy smiles,  _ Have you seen this man? This is Takashi Shirogane, a former soldier turned highwayman. We’re looking for him _ , and stabbed their fingers right into the drawing’s scarred nose.

How his father had handled them with mild manners and mild smiles.  _ Of course not. No highwaymen come ‘round to this inn. _

(not since Krolia, but Krolia had walked to her death pretending no one in the Marmora Inn knew about her misdemeanours except her)

_ Well, keep your eyes out. He’s been spotted in the area, _ the Galra leader had told them.

And now, as Keith sees the highwayman riding in their courtyard, he waits to see if Takashi Shirogane steps inside.

He doesn’t. What Shirogane  _ does _ do is lift his head so he’s staring straight at Keith, eyes no longer hidden under the brim of his hat.

The whistling fades away.

Keith can’t see the colour from here, not when his eyes are still shadowed though visible, but he also just… can’t look away. So he doesn’t, not until Shirogane’s lips curl into a smile big enough to see from the window, and he turns his horse away.

Keith doesn’t stop looking until the highwayman is too far to see, other than when he passes through flashes of silver moonlight. Then, he turns back to the neglected blade and continues to sharpen it.

He can’t help the curiosity that lingers in the back of his mind though, wondering why the highwayman had looked back and smiled.

(it had been an admittedly good-looking smile)

* * *

Keith doesn’t see the highwayman for another few months, and thinks that’s the end of it. Someone who could have been fun to know (could have lived a life like Krolia did before she’d met his father) but was probably caught by the Galra.

So he puts the highwayman, Takashi Shirogane, out of his mind, and focuses on helping his dad with the inn, just like he’s always done since he became old and tall enough to be a help rather than a hindrance. Maybe he’ll ask about Krolia today.

(he won’t. Keith has never known his mother, never known what kind of person she was other than she loved them fiercely enough to leave, but he knows just enough that he’s left waiting, wondering,  _ wanting  _ to know more. Knows just enough about how his dad’s face becomes old and tired and heartbroken every time Keith does something to drag memories of Krolia from the murk of time)

And it’s after a particularly bad day, where rowdy  _ idiots _ had tried to start a brawl before Keith had knocked them all flat and Dad’s eyes had taken on that misty, far-off look for the rest of the day, that he practically storms up to his room and starts upkeep on Krolia’s blade.

Oil to stop the rust, sharpen to take away the blunting of practice, focus on the task for some semblance of calm. And he’s probably doing all these tasks with a bit too much force in his movements when again, whistling is carried through the air and into Keith’s room.

And as pretty as the whistling is, especially compared to the usual racket that Keith has to put up with, his blood is boiling and he’s tired and he’s  _ furious  _ and trying to push it down but it’s not working like it should be so he throws the knife down onto the ground, slams open his shutters and snarls at the highwayman to shut up.

Horse and highwayman jump at once, and Keith might have laughed if he didn’t feel like hitting something. Instead, he glares and slams his window back shut. Turns on his heels, stomps back to his bed, and…

...sees the blade, oil, whetstone and cloth, all sprawled on the floor and oil tipped over to pool onto the wood.

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Keith says eloquently, right before he bows his head and starts to clean up.

If he concentrates, he thinks he can hear the  _ tlot-tlot  _ of horse hooves on cobblestone growing ever fainter.

(what a great day)

* * *

So, the highwayman hadn’t been caught by the Galra. Good on him. Good to know they’re failing to catch only one man, despite the resources at their disposal as part of the king’s elite.

And now, they probably wouldn’t even see Shirogane in the area, because Keith probably drove him away from anywhere near this town and Marmora Inn by telling the highwayman to shut up while in a bad mood.

(he can’t help but groan at himself. The whistling wasn’t even  _ bad. _ It had actually been nice to listen to. Why did he tell Shirogane to shut up?)

(Keith might feel a bit guilty)

(his bad mood might have continued through the week because of this)

(he  _ might  _ be concerning his father)

(y a y)

Keith ends up falling onto his bed, head curled into the nest his arms make and not even bothering to change before he tries to go to blissful, thought-free unconsciousness. Right when he’s about to fall asleep though, when his eyes are heavy and brain comfortably silent, a warbling tune sounds from the courtyard.

Keith thinks six things in quick succession:

  1. Who the fuck is stopping me from sleeping
  2. Oh fuck the highwayman is back again why
  3. No seriously why I told him to shut up before slamming my window
  4. Wow his whistling is actually really nice I kinda feel like falling asleep
  5. Wait
  6. WAIT HE’S BACK



Brain successfully jumpstarted, Keith hoists himself out of bed and peeks outside. He doesn’t see the highwayman or the horse, but the whistling reaches a crescendo and he’s left to squint at the open courtyard until—

“Hi,” says a voice from underneath the windowsill, and Keith freezes, inhales, slowly looks downwards.

The highwayman looks up at him, with a laughing smile and kind eyes.

“Uh. Hi,” Keith says back, feeling distinctly awkward. Then, “Uh, I’m sorry, uh, for last week. That I snapped at you.” And in a voice so low, so quiet, it’s turned into a murmur, “It wasn’t right.”

The laughing smile turns gentle. Kind eyes spark with curiosity. Interest. And the response he gives is a considering hum. Not something that puts Keith at ease, but. Something that assuages the bad mood, the echoes of guilt for snapping that lingered in his chest.

“Thank you,” says the highwayman, and he shifts on his saddle. Looks up at Keith thoughtfully. “My name’s Takashi, but you can call me Shiro. What’s your name?”

Keith’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth, suddenly present, and he’s not really sure what to say. If he should say anything at all.

Shiro’s a highwayman and a deserter. Keith doesn’t know who he robs, but the Galra are intently after him, and they’re only after the best or the worst of road robbers. And of deserters.

It probably isn’t safe to say anything. It’s stupid enough that this is the third time Keith’s ever seen him and he’s allowing this conversation. Participating in it. If the Galra found out, they’d probably shoot him on the spot.

(but Keith’s mother was a highwayman. Krolia was a deserter. And Dad had always said that she was the most dedicated person that he’d ever met, more dedicated than anyone he’ll ever meet in the future)

“Keith,” he says, almost startles himself with it. “My name’s Keith. I’m the innkeeper’s son.”

Shiro’s smile could outshine the stars. Certainly outshined the new moon in the sky, empty black space in a field of lights.

“It’s nice to meet you,” the highwayman tells him brightly, more polite than Keith had expected.

And as Keith says the phrase back, almost on autopilot…

He’s surprised to find that he means it.


	2. Chapter 2

After that day, Shiro starts to come round more often. What might have been three times a year soon turned to once a month at the very least, excepting when the Galra got too close for comfort.

(there was an incident, where Keith and Shiro had been talking far too long and deeply, that had went a little something like this:

They’d been chatting, smile curling onto Keith’s face and Shiro relaxing, when Keith had caught a flash of almost royal purple in the corner of his eye. He was grabbing the spare keys to the stables and the inn before he even knew what he was doing.

“Keith?” Shiro had said, eyes blinking in worried confusion, and Keith had said nothing as he stared wondered stared except—

“Trust me,” he’d said fiercely, and stretched out his hand.

Shiro had took it, Black had been shooed to the stables, and Keith had been left with a highwayman in his room until the morning came, not knowing what to do with him)

Now, it was the twentieth-odd time that Shiro had hauled himself up into Keith’s room as Black trotted patiently to the stables, and Keith’s still not sure what to do about it.

They’d agreed that it was safer, all in all, because whatever witch ensured one couldn’t lie to the Galra regiment couldn’t catch the hidden truth in “Takashi Shirogane has never been in the inn.”

(even if he’d climbed through Keith’s window enough times that Keith doesn’t even have to see it to know just  _ how _ he’s doing it, even though Black knows the routine well enough that she always looks expectantly at Keith until he gives her something to snack on, because he hasn’t been in the inn and that’s all that the Galra and witches would ever ask)

So Keith just looks at Shiro, broad-shouldered, splayed out on Keith’s floor,  _ smiling _ , and listens as carefully as he can while Shiro tells him about his travels. Just like Keith had asked him to.

It’s… it’s nice. Keith thinks he can get used to this, maybe.

* * *

He  _ does _ get used to it.

Gets so used to it that he doesn’t notice when he’s known for a year, only connects the faded dots when it’s nearly been two years since he’s heard the name Takashi Shirogane and the beginning of their strange friendship.

And really, that connection sparks and welds together the minute before Dad comes into Keith’s room, brows furrowed and the corners of his mouth tilted down. Keith can’t help the way his shoulders hunch inwards at that look, and Dad only sighs.

This probably isn’t going to be a fun conversation.

Still, when Dad sits down on the edge of Keith’s bed and motions for Keith to sit beside him, he does. Looks at Dad and waits for him to collect his thoughts, because he’s never really been the type of person who blurts it all out at once.

“Keith,” Dad says finally, like a sigh and a prayer all at once. “If you’re going to make friends with a highwayman and sneak him into your room so he’s out of sight, do it less  _ obviously. _ ”

“Uh,” Keith says, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. “Uh, I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dad only pats him on the back, which is somewhere between comforting and  _ oh shit,  _ surprisingly. Keith just… He puts his head on Dad’s shoulder and groans.

“What way other than my window? If a druid comes around, I don’t want to lie that he’s never been in the inn.”

( _ he’ll know if you’re lying, _ a Galra soldier had said when questioning Dad about Krolia.  _ The druids always know) _

(the druids weren’t very good at finding lies of omission though)

(they were still excellent at finding the ones you say)

He feels, more than sees Dad look up, and there’s only a hand on Keith’s shoulder and the feeling of a head leaning on his own.

“I don’t know son,” he murmurs, and the hand on Keith’s shoulder squeezes. “Just… be careful.”

And Keith thinks of Krolia, of Shiro, of the way Dad’s face looked when he got himself lost in memories of  _ before _ . And all he does is nod because that’s all he can do, all he can do is—

“I’ll try.”

They don't say anything else.

* * *

“Thanks for helping me up,” Shiro says, as per usual, and Keith gives him a smile.

“You’re welcome,” Keith says, as per usual, and Shiro smiles back. Then they both look to the only chair in the room, and Keith raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to argue about who takes the chair again?”

The smile turns into something that’s mischievous and demure and conniving all at once. “Only if you don’t take it,” Shiro laughs, and raises his hands in a  _ what can you do _ kind of gesture.

Keith rolls his eyes. “Just take the damn chair, Shiro.”

Shiro doesn’t take the damn chair, and makes this very clear by stubbornly sitting right beside it and leaning his head back. “Why don’t you?”

“You’re the guest,” Keith says flatly, and sits down right beside Shiro, just to try and pull him up. When his efforts prove fruitless, Keith rolls his eyes again and settles himself down more comfortably.

(there are days where Shiro gives in easily, and then there are days where he doesn’t)

(Keith has never been the best at picking his battles, but they’ve gone through this process enough that he knows when to continue and when to simply enjoy the moment)

“So, should I talk first, or are you going to?” Shiro asks, head on Keith’s lap and legs stretched across the floor, and Keith looks into his eyes right before shrugging. 

“You first. I need to fix my braid.” And he starts to do just that, quietly aware of how Shiro looks at him with curiosity before closing his eyes and just relaxes.

Keith’s fingers start to unravel his hair, combing through for the knots in them, and Shiro tells him about all the interesting things that have happened since last month’s visit. How the Galra seem to be teetering between giving up on finding their deserters or redoubling their pursuits. How Sam and Colleen and Matt and Katie Holt had welcomed Shiro into their home once again, with open arms and wide smiles.

And Shiro’s not exactly a professional storyteller, but neither is Keith. So he lets the words wash over him and pour into his ears, until the precious few that there are have all dried up. When done with his tales, Shiro looks up at him with soft, dark eyes, like looking at the night sky through mist, or the moon only half-shrouded by clouds.

“Your turn,” he murmurs, and instead of talking about the stream of travellers in and out of the inn (though more like a trickle, really; not a lot of people come around here), or the uncommon stories about Keith’s childhood, or the even rare stories about Dad and Krolia, Keith untangles his fingers from his hair and  _ looks _ .

Leans so his head is a bit closer to Shiro’s, hyper aware about the hand that has come to rest on his leg. Aware of the fire flickering beside them, warmth beating on Keith’s cheeks and shoulder and Shiro’s everything. Aware of  _ Keith’s _ hand, slowly placing itself onto Shiro’s cheek.

Keith’s eyes flick to the left, where he knows Shiro had stowed his sword behind them, then to where the pistol lies, and he can’t help but cough, stalls even as Shiro looks intently towards him.

“Uh, Shiro,” he rasps, and licks his lips. “How high is the chance of you shooting me if I kiss you?”

(and he’s made himself vulnerable, made himself an open target, and isn’t sure what to do if Shiro says the chance is high, if he moves and goes for his gun and sword)

(Keith’s no stranger to stupid, impulsive decisions, but he’s suddenly pretty sure that this one takes the cake)

He’s not sure, really, when he started to hold his breath, but when Shiro says quietly, “Not high at all,” all the air comes whooshing out at once. Shiro doesn’t say anything else. Simply looks up at Keith, not questioning or anything. Just waiting.

(Keith’s no stranger to stupid, impulsive decisions, but this one might be a good idea?)

(he doesn’t know until it’s gone through with)

Keith grins, and doesn’t wait any longer to capture Shiro’s lips in a kiss.

(this impulse was the right one to follow)


End file.
